


Close Encounters

by Nebulad



Series: Witch Doctor [4]
Category: The Arcana (Visual Novel)
Genre: Attempted Murder, F/M, Fluff, Kisses, Misc Doctoring, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-19
Updated: 2017-09-19
Packaged: 2018-12-31 12:41:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,229
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12132714
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nebulad/pseuds/Nebulad
Summary: “Hello,” they hummed for lack of anything better to say. Julian didn’t respond in words, but his lip pulled up into something akin to a leer, if he hadn’t been so tense. “Am I too close, sweetheart?”“All’s fine here,” he breathed, in contrast to the wicked expression he was failing to maintain. Experimentally, they leaned in until their noses brushed and refocused their eyes on his lips. They’d stopped thinking about much of anything besides the way his mouth was so faintly red from wine.“How about now?”





	Close Encounters

“Thank-god,” the bartender barked when Jhend slipped into the bar, their hands still shaking a little. “He’s pacing a fucking hole in my floor and I’m getting sick of listening to his boots click.” As if summoned, Julian suddenly flung himself to the top of the stairs.

“Is that—”

“You can goddamn _see_ ‘em, Jules, don’t ask me.” Julian needed no more prompting, skipping stairs in that insufferable way that people with long legs did as if every vertical incline or decline was a mere step stone to them.

“Are you—”

“Making a scene? No, but you are,” they hummed, squeezing his wrists before he could throw himself on them. They had just experienced what was medically known as _an incredibly, unnecessarily long_ fucking day; surely the doctor, of all people, could see as much. Sneaking out of the palace after an attempt on their _life_ had been a pain in the ass like nothing else could be.

“I sincerely regret to inform you that I was born to make scenes. Were you hurt? Try to be specific, god knows what the bastard had on him to get the job done.” He freed with wrists with a careless pull, immediately resuming his presumed physical in full view of the curious tavern go’ers.

“I will kill you myself if you don’t start back up those stairs,” they warned quietly, their face feeling hot against the candlelight. He grinned down and actually opened his mouth to say something flirtatious while the old women peered at both of them from over their cards. _“Go,_ Devorak, _now.”_

“Bossy,” he accused, but pressed his hand to their back and guided them like they’d forgotten the way. They allowed that much, only because his hands were shaking like the whole event had just gone down outside the bar instead of hours prior. He hadn’t been there, which was a testament to Vesuvia’s rumour mill.

He shut the door with a flourish and raised his hands. “Go on,” they sighed, spreading their arms out like he was going to pat them down. Predictably he rolled his eyes, ushering them over to the bed to sit down.

“You didn’t answer me before, so go on— any nicks or cuts you can’t account for?”

“Do you often give yourself physicals?”

“I’m about to give _you_ one if you won’t listen.”

“That was a weirdly sexy threat, Julian.” His face turned so red he looked like a kettle getting hot, but he _studiously_ ignored the obvious interpretation of what he’d said. “No, doctor, no weird cuts or bruises.”

“Fatigue?”

“God yes.”

“I meant outside of what you’d expect.”

“Since I got jumped or since this whole fiasco started?”

He sighed, his hand pausing against their neck where he’d presumably been looking for bruises— they’d heard that one in the street on their way there, that the attacker had attempted to strangle them. Not true, and now he seemed to know for sure. “Jhend, I’ve spent all day since I heard what happened thinking you were too hurt to come see me. The palace was panicking, slammed its gates shut— will you just let me do this?”

Stupid, sincere Julian let them stew on that for far too long in guilty silence. “I don’t know if there’s been weird fatigue. I don’t know how much attempted murder really warrants,” they said stiffly. He visibly relaxed, running his thumb gently against their neck.

“How long have you been shaking?”

“Since I got within spitting distance of the bar.” There, that would satisfy him. “I didn’t like the doctor they had look me over.”

“Oh?” His eye was drawn down to their arms and wrists, where there were a few bruises from the struggle. They weren’t _entirely_ unmarked, as the would-be killer had almost definitely underestimated the difficulty of trying to take down someone with magic at their disposal.

“She wasn’t as pretty as you,” they teased, and the look he gave them was torn between the urge to play along and wanting to prod them for more sincere information. They almost didn’t want to give it to him, but they had made an implied promise to take this line of questioning seriously. “And Nadia’s court doesn’t seem to particularly… like me.”

“I can’t imagine anyone not adoring you,” he mumbled, going to their head to avoid asking them to shed any layers. There wasn’t much else to see on the rest of them, honestly; all that was left was bruising around the hips and ribs where the whole of the man’s weight had been thrown on top of them. They hissed when Julian’s hands found the spot where their head had bounced off of the ground.

“There were a few snide remarks about how she was surprised I couldn’t wave my hands and heal myself.” Or kill the attacker, or find Doctor Devorak, or do much else besides quietly eat with Nadia and give her updates on how they were most certainly closing in on Julian. They only partially lied about those— they frequently closed in on Julian, just not in the spots where they told Nadia they did.

He scowled, dropping his hands and pushing them through his own hair instead. He didn’t _say_ anything at first, but moved to the door. “One moment, dear,” he said, slipping back downstairs. They took that moment to shed their boots and stretch out, pressing the heels of their palms into their eyes. The shaking had abated and they were privately relieved that Julian hadn’t found anything. The woman in Nadia’s palace hadn’t liked them, and furthermore seemed to resent being called to make sure they weren’t dying— how could they trust whatever diagnosis she offered?

More than her had seemed almost disappointed that nothing as dramatic as an actual murder had taken place. They could hear the whispering as they were brought to where Nadia was waiting for them, her knuckles white as she waited to hear the news; they were sorry to have worried her, but sorrier that she’d believed it would be a power move to bring them out before all her courtiers again. It was all many of them could do to not openly express disappointment, nor mention magic lest they upset the Countess again.

Gods, look at them trying not to cry in a rickety tavern of all places. They’d since stopped resenting Nadia, knowing that nothing she did was meant in a particularly malicious manner and that Asra had most certainly done something to her head; but they _hated_ her palace. Their own private quarters were overly clean and desperately lonely even when Portia was there, and there was… something on the grounds. They weren’t sure what to call it or if they could really confidently say they _felt_ its presence, but it made everything feel a little less safe than they considered comfortable.

They wanted to go home, or even just… stay in the Raven and burrow down into the blankets until they stopped existing for a while. Julian would let them, in a perfect world— one where Nadia wouldn’t assume that Jhend had been taken from their bed unwillingly if they didn’t return back the way they came. They regretted not staying over sooner, now that sneaking down to the maze was next to impossible with the guards posted so loyally outside their door and dotted around the grounds.

The door swung open again and Julian returned, holding two preposterous looking glasses. “Mulled wine,” he answered, kicking it back shut behind him. “One for my nerves and I _suppose_ you can have the second one.” He grinned and they sat up, wiping at their eyes with what they hoped was very purposeful dignity. “Not too sad to drink?” he asked.

They smiled weakly, relishing the warmth against their fingers. “Is there such a thing?”

“There most certainly is, but that’s why you have me— to lighten the mood, of all things.” Keeping the drink pristinely balanced, he shuffled across the bed to the left, leaning back and watching them carefully as they examined the glass.

“Did you spike my drink?” they asked faintly, sipping at it anyway.

“I’m honoured that we’re so close now that you ask instead of snatching mine from my hands. Also, no.” He drained half of his in one go, placing it lightly on the table beside the bed and going back to his watching.

They liked him watching, even if he was only doing it because he expected them to crumble like dust. “Can I help you?” they asked shifting a little closer. It turned out to be exactly what he wanted, almost absent mindedly going back to his exam. “I’m all right, Julian,” they hummed, shifting their jacket down their shoulders so he could see further down their collarbone.

He nodded. “Part of me knows that, I think. Tell me what happened.”

“I was walking with Portia, and the man threw himself on top of me. My head hit the ground—”

“You’re not bleeding, are you?” he asked, suddenly alert.

“It happened this morning, sweetheart. If I was still bleeding I’d be dead.”

“It’s only that I shouldn’t be feeding you booze if you’re bleeding. Go on, ignore me.” In the soft golden glow of the candles, with his head dipped so close… it seemed impossible to think meaningfully.

“You’re hard to ignore,” they said without thinking. His hair caught the light and burned so darkly red that they pulled at an errant string on the embroidery of their jacket to keep from touching him. The same was not true for him, whose very gentle hands were prodding at their tender ribs. They bit their lip to keep from hissing.

He looked up, face red enough to indicate that yes, he _had_ heard them. “Does that hurt?” he asked, ducking behind whatever professionalism was allowed to a man whose medical degree consisted of a pretty okay dead-to-less-dead patient ratio, considering he specialised in the plague.

“No,” they lied.

Apparently they were less than convincing. “Is it bruised?”

“You’ll have to ask a lot nicer if you want me to take my shirt off, Julian,” they warned, more breathless than flirty this time. They were mutually very close and very warm, and the air between the faint candle smoke and the wine smelled comfortable; homey, in a way the palace wasn’t.

“You’re making it very hard to think straight,” he scolded. “Keep telling me what happened.”

They frowned, but did as he asked because they had nothing more clever to say. “After I hit my head he pulled a knife out, but I blasted it away from him. He swung down to try and hit me but Portia grabbed him and took him to the ground.” He muttered something complimentary-sounding in his own language, not meant for them. “The guards got him and Portia took me back to the palace to get looked at.”

“Did he say anything?”

They shook their head, interrupting him so they could grab the wine. “The way I see it, there’s one of two possibilities. The most obvious one is that one of the courtiers is bored of me, or annoyed that Nadia doesn’t hate me, or is just bored in general.”

“And the other?”

They blinked at him, slow and deliberate. “The common folk seem to like you quite a bit, sweetheart. Nadia tries to keep my purpose at the palace very quiet, but everyone knows that I’m meant to find you before the party.”

The thought seemed to disturb him, drawing him to a full stop on their back (more rib touching, they assumed, as they were angled for it). “No,” he said, and then, “...do you think so?”

“A little. I’d like to think that more than the alternative.” Defending Julian was at least noble work, as one of the few doctors who journeyed so far down into the slums.

“I don’t want that,” he said, brows furrowed. They grinned, pushing themself up on their knees and putting their arms around his shoulders. His face had gotten too serious and the best cure for that was to embarrass him.

“I should hope that my pretty doctor wouldn’t want to kill me,” they teased.

His face didn’t change. “What if more of them try?”

They tried to stifle a sigh. “I don’t know, Juli. I guess I keep dashingly fending them off.” That at least drew a snort from him, and he leaned his head against theirs.

“Do you think you looked very dashing, getting tackled?” he asked, his hand reaching up to hold theirs against his collar.

“I got my head dashed on the ground. That should count for something.”

“Don’t say things like that, or I’ll be up all night wringing my hands after you leave,” he scolded, turning to face them properly. Something in the air shifted as they both realised that they were very, very close. Face-to-face seemed very different from the full embrace they’d already had him in— they could see how red his eyelashes were, even against the tired purple of his eye socket.

“Hello,” they hummed for lack of anything better to say. He didn’t respond in words, but his lip pulled up into something akin to a leer, if he hadn’t been so tense. “Am I too close, sweetheart?”

“All’s fine here,” he breathed, in contrast to the wicked expression he was failing to maintain. Experimentally, they leaned in until their noses brushed and refocused their eyes on his lips. They’d stopped thinking about much of anything besides the way his mouth was so faintly red from wine.

“How about now?”

“Don’t tease me, Jhend.” Certainly he was trying to sound casual, but he’d long since flown by that. His hand had absently reached for their thigh, but the angle was too awkward— they remedied that by moving from his side to his lap, distantly grateful that at least their legs were only sore and not as bruised as the rest of them.

They meant to drag it out a little, because his nose was _so_ red that they could hardly resist making him squirm more, but that plan seemed to drastically overestimate their own self control. When they leaned in again, not having much room left to work with anyway, Julian’s lips seemed to pucker on instinct and that wiped away any real thought process they were working with beforehand— not much, come to think. They surged forward the rest of the way and he slid back, perhaps not having expected them to actually go for it. He was flat on his back while Jhend tried to quickly balance themself on top without stopping the kiss.

Everything after that seemed to happen in rapid succession. Almost embarrassed, he deepened the kiss and they went with it because they’d left all higher brain function at a different altitude. He was a good kisser— _don’t think about Asra, do_ not _think about Asra—_ and more than content to let them do as they pleased, which was a relief because they weren’t sure they’d be able to control the involuntary way their body was moving. His hands— gloves, which was a bit of a texture shock— slid up their shirt, but very tamely, just to run up their back. Restless, he tossed off one of his gloves to run his fingers up the back of their skull, catching handfuls of dark red hair—

—they broke off to grunt in pain. Stupid, stupid head injury, stupid killer smashing their stupid head off the stupid ground.

“Shit, I hit— I’m sorry, Jhend, let me—” There was much fumbling as they sat up on his hips, trying to resist the urge to clamp their hands against the bump, while he shifted out from underneath them to begin rifling through a bag in the corner of the room. He came back with a strange, flexible blue pouch that was cold to the touch. “Put this on it,” he said in his best medical professional voice, still a little faint and shaky. It made them want to push him back all over again, pain be damned.

They accepted the offer frowning a little. “How did it get so cold?” they asked, and he grinned.

“Even people without your gift can get a hold of a _little_ magic, for the right price,” he told them, tossing his other glove across the room as well. In retrospect they wished he’d done so beforehand, if for nothing but the pleasure of his bare hand on their back. Or their leg. Or anywhere, really— the gloves built some sort of pseudo-mythical reputation for his skin. “Stop looking at me like that,” he warned.

“Or what?”

“Or nothing.” He sounded exasperated, but he was beaming in the faintly giddy way they’d felt building in their chest. “It’s just that you’re a little too injured for me to be thoughtless, and you’ll be slipping back to the palace soon, so it only seems cruel of you to purposely torment me.” The thought of going back to their empty, empty room was suddenly worlds more unbearable than before; and god, what did they say to Portia? Did they keep quiet or… you know… _about our mutual friend, well guess what?_ They’d _want_ to say something just because she was the only one they could confide in at the palace without fear of reprisal— they kept the same secrets, after all— but… it’d be tasteless, wouldn’t it?

And not like they could turn to Asra as they were sometimes wont to do when fondness for him outweighed suspicion and hurt. _Guess what we have in common now, which I’m not entirely sure how you’ll feel about? I guess Julian has a taste for magic, huh?_ “Jhend?” he asked, concerned by their vapid staring and silence.

“I’m okay,” they assured him again, quietly. “I just…” _Hate this entire situation. Why didn’t you ever find me in my shop before all this? You never had to, of course, and maybe fate didn’t want you to. What will the cards think of the wrench this throws into everything, because_ I’ll _hang before I tell Nadia where to find you, even if you did kill the Count._

“You’re thinking very hard for someone with a head injury,” he teased, then very tentatively leaned in and kissed their jaw. They sighed, and comforted by their reaction he trailed down the column of their throat, almost to their chest. He hovered there, almost conspicuously silent for a moment. “Don’t try to come see me if it’s too dangerous,” he mumbled, thoughts darkening alongside theirs.

“It wouldn’t be for me… just awkward to explain, depending on _where_ they catch me.”

“I’d feel better if you were being careful.”

“You’re very serious for someone who was just kissed,” they said, pulling him back up to their face. They wanted to touch him, suddenly, very badly. It wasn’t even a particularly sexual urge— they only wanted to feel his hair, touch his jaw, run their fingers across his shoulders.

“Let me finish off the wine and we’ll see about improving my mood,” he murmured, already leaning in. They only had a few hours left to spare before it was safer to sneak away, but his hands made short work of the decision to enjoy his company in the meantime.

**Author's Note:**

> [My writing blog is here](http://nebulaad.tumblr.com) and [my commission post](nebulaad.tumblr.com/post/162182264019/writing-commissions) lives there.
> 
> Look, why make him a doctor if he doesn't fuss a little? Although all due respect to the fact that, as I mentioned, his medical degree is the "most of them lived" seal of approval from the villagers.


End file.
